


The Midnight Wedding

by VTsuion



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Allusions to the Occult, Established Relationship, M/M, Secret Marriage, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: It began as just a lark between good friends, but in practice their illicit wedding had the air of a dark ritual.





	The Midnight Wedding

It was in their middling years, long after Sherlock Holmes’s “miraculous” return from the “dead,” but before his and Dr. John Watson’s retirement to Sussex. They sat at the dining table in their Baker street flat one morning in late September, eating a leisurely breakfast as the wind howled and a cold rain pounded against the window panes.

“You’ll be happy to hear,” Holmes remarked, spreading jam on another slice of toast, “That a messenger arrived from Mr. Dunn this morning. He proposed to Miss Wheatstone last night after the whole case was resolved and she accepted. We’ve even been invited to the wedding,” Holmes concluded with a hint of disdain.

Watson swallowed the egg he had been eating and answered, “My congratulations to them both! It would be a relief to attend a wedding instead of a funeral for once.”

Holmes frowned, “As tiresome as the funerals may be, I would find it no more engaging to watch you dance with an infinite supply of charming young suitors.”

“My blushes, Holmes, you flatter me,” Watson teased, “I never suspected you of being prone to jealousy.”

“You mistake my boredom for jealousy,” Holmes said drily, punctuated by the crunch of a bite of toast, “Without any claim to you beyond the indecent, I would be powerless to stop you from accepting all dances offered with the manners of a true gentleman.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” Watson insisted, “I am certain that many charming young ladies would be equally inclined to dance with you if you gave it the chance.”

Holmes stuck up his nose at the suggestion, “You very well know that I have no interest in your ‘charming’ suitors. Weddings are altogether sentimental affairs that I prefer to avoid.”

“A fox, unable to reach grapes hanging high up on a vine scoffs and calls them sour,” Watson retorted with a laugh.

Holmes scoffed as per his role, “What would I want with a wedding? Unless you covertly desire to be rid of me, I suspect our interests align in this instance.”

“Have you no suitor worthy of your interest?” Watson feigned insult over another bite of egg.

Holmes let out a barking laugh, “It would be the ruin of us.”

Silence fell as the solemn truth settled over them. It lay heavy upon their shoulders. In the comfort and quiet of their home it was dangerously easy to forget that they lived in the shadow of the law of man and God.

“It needn't be a public affair,” Watson suggested quietly, “Something small, just the two of us…”

“But why?” Holmes asked, incredulous, his fork pointed at Watson for emphasis.

Watson laughed it off and the conversation moved to other channels, but somehow the idea took root in their minds.

 

***

 

In the daylight it had seemed an easy joke, but now, in the dead of night, it seemed deadly serious. The windows were darkened by heavy curtains so that only the flickering orange light of a few mismatched lamps scattered across the room was left to chase away the darkness that closed in around them. The doctor and the detective had both dressed in their best suits, the sort they would wear to a wedding, with green carnations pinned to their lapels. The living room furniture had been moved aside to make an aisle up to the dim fireplace, which passed for an altar. A red glow from the embers of a fire that had long since died emanated from its depths, invoking the encroaching fires of hell.

It was then, standing at the far end of their sitting room, looking at Sherlock Holmes standing by the fireplace, bathed in dark red light, that John Watson hesitated. He saw Holmes's eyes soften, only barely, but enough for Watson to see his concern as though it were plainly written across his face.

“You don't have to do this,” he could hear Holmes saying, though neither broke the silence that lay over the ritual scene.

Watson could see Holmes almost beginning to step away from the altar to join him at the other end of the room. But before Holmes could break the spell that had fallen over them, Watson took a deep breath to steady his nerves. This was no magic rite, just a celebration of their long companionship, no matter what the flickering candles may have suggested to the contrary.

Watson fixed his eyes on Holmes and gave him a small, reassuring smile. A ring would have been dangerously conspicuous, so Watson brought only himself on his slow ascent to the altar. They did not dare risk any music on the new phonogram for the occasion, let alone a wedding march, so he walked in silence, serenaded only by the sound of the winter wind pounding against the walls and howling into the night as a chorus of demons.

But there were no demons nor fires of hell in their repurposed sitting room. There was only Holmes and Watson, two men standing before a dying fire, illuminated by the orange flicker of candlelight. Holmes’s eyes nearly seemed to glow silver with affection as he took Watson’s right hand in his at long last - or perhaps it was merely a trick of the light.

For a long moment, they stood as though transfixed, staring into each other’s eyes as a silent conversation passed between them. Joy and fear mirrored in both their eyes. And somehow, amidst it all, in the presence of the man with whom he spent nearly every waking moment, Watson’s heart seemed to race like that of an anxious bride and he felt Holmes’s heart beating just as fast in his wrist.

It was Holmes who broke the heavy silence.

His voice was hoarse as he began his vows, though he gained quiet strength as he spoke, “I, Sherlock Holmes, take John Watson to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do us part.” 

Holmes hesitated and the candles flickered, the wind howled more fiercely than it had yet that night - or perhaps they were just imagining it.

They both knew what came next; “According to God’s holy ordinance.” But neither could argue that there was anything holy about their matrimony, hidden as it was in the darkness of night and behind heavy curtains besides to conceal the meager candlelight.

Holmes let out a sharp cough before he could hold it back and forced himself to continue, skipping over the incriminating phrase, “And thereto I plight thee my troth.”

They let their hands fall just long enough to mark the transition, before Watson took Holmes’s right hand in his own and echoed with the bold force of conviction, “I, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

His words rang out loud and clear. For a moment he feared it was too loud, but the echoes were drowned out by the wind and so they remained safe in their cocoon. The rite complete, they let their hands fall once more. The candlelight danced across their faces, illuminating and concealing in shadow in turn. They stood still as though waiting for some great transformation to take place. Perhaps they had finally earned their retribution for treading too close onto God’s domain.

But no retribution came.

Holmes reached a hand into his pocket and let a golden band fall lightly to the floor to shake out any evil spirits that may have latched onto it. He stooped over to pick up a simple gold bracelet, the inside of which was etched with their initials and the date. Watson’s eyes widened in surprise, but he silently held up his hand.

Holmes clasped the bracelet around Watson’s wrist and recited, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

They did not then kneel and pray, neither to God as Watson had when he married his late wife, nor to whatever dark forces seemed to ride with the wind and lurk in the embers that night. Instead, they remained standing. For the moment, all they had or needed was the other.

“I thought we had agreed not to acquire rings, as much out of confusion as to who was to give and who to receive, as discretion,” Watson broke the spell of silence over them and tore his eyes away from Holmes to admire the band around his wrist, “Had I known I would have gotten something for you as well.”

Holmes let out a soft chuckle that seemed to dance with the candlelight, “I’m glad I can still surprise you. Sometimes I fear you know me too well even for that. It is only right for me to give you the ‘ring,’ as consolation for causing you to take the role of the bride, if for no other reason.”

Watson smiled in gratitude and allowed his gaze to be drawn back to the simple, yet elegant bracelet that was more than consolation.

“Shall we?” Holmes suggested after taking the time to revel in Watson’s appreciation.

They linked arms and returned down the makeshift aisle, their eyes fixed upon the other. 


End file.
